The Vertical Path Magazine

“All my life I had to fight!” Every time I think about writing my story, that line from The Color Purple pops into my head… Then I start hearing Shug singing, “God is trying to tell you something.”  I smile. I pause and start humming. Then I grab my Roku remote and find the Color Purple on some streaming service or another. I gather my snacks, beverage, blanket, and pillow and prepare for some great cinema. But what I don’t do, is write my story.  

Since my earliest childhood memories (age 3 to 5), I have been laughed at, talked about, shunned, avoided, and bullied.  I never could understand what I was always doing that was so wrong… why the simple act of me breathing made everyone around me so mad at me all of the time. I just knew that I didn’t fit in. I didn’t belong anywhere.  Occasionally, I would come across (or be put in the presence of—Thanks, Mom.) someone like me. Usually, these kind souls were adults with some talent to share, history to tell, skill or knowledge to teach, and/or wisdom to impart.  I always thought of them as “kindred spirits” (Anne of Green Gables).  Unfortunately, I more often encountered the douchebags  who delighted in tormenting the quiet, strange, tiny person that was me.

I got used to it.  I practiced becoming invisible.  I was a firm believer of “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.”  I built my own world full of happy things and I loved living there. I would be greatly annoyed when I had to leave my sanctuary and entertain the children , big dummies , and douchebags  that surrounded me in real life.  As Eric Thomas said in one of his awesome motivational speeches, “The voices of the non-believers were so loud, that [I] began to believe them.  I began erasing myself and trying to be anybody but who I was.  Trying to be someone who was more like them.

Fast forward thirty-five years and you would find me broken, alone, and “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I’d completed all of my duties and met all of my obligations. I was over it… and I was done. My memory is still a little hazy, but I do know that after countless attempts, beginning my freshman year in High School, I finally succeeded in committing suicide! … for a week or so anyway.

The entire ordeal resulted in two separate hospital stays.  The second time is when I died for a week.  So, two days after my release from the first stay, I couldn’t breathe.  My younger daughter called the ambulance. When the paramedics arrived, they attempted to give me a breathing treatment and my heart stopped.  I woke up days later, surrounded by my sister and my maternal auntie and uncles. My sister is always there for me.  Apparently, the family had decided to pull the plug (finally adhering to my wishes) and were waiting for me to stop breathing so they could figure out what to do with my body.

But. I. Woke. Up. My mind was malfunctioning big time, though.  I woke up a child  and a big dummy — with a little douchebaggery  thrown in, lol.  I had no idea that I had visited the “other side” for nearly a week and exhibited no medical evidence of possible recovery. But I woke up and I knew that I had been born (the original time) to be spectacular.  I also woke with a feeling of purpose, but with no idea of that what purpose was, exactly.  it would take two years of intense physical pain, intense inner reflection, intense therapy, intense research, and intense experiences for me to gain understanding, tools, and resources to manifest that purpose… as directed by my Higher Power, God .

It took me two years to mediate with God. I left Him after He took my beloved husband.  I let Him know that I didn’t understand why He took every single person away from me, who always only showed kindness toward me.  I couldn’t comprehend why He needed my sibling playmate, mom, oldest brother, husband, and daddy more than I did. He is literally surrounded by good, kind souls.  He has Jesus, for God’s sake! I had no one but two innocent souls that I had to prepare to embark on life’s journey on earth as beautiful, smart, black, southern, Texan women. Whelp, He had some things to say back. I listened. I apologized, asked for His forgiveness, and expressed gratitude for my life—for the first time in my life.  He reminded me of the promises he had recorded long ago and revealed to me the way to living joyously, happily, and freely. He also gave me an assignment to do (Nothing good comes without hard work, first…). 

It took me two years of losing everything my husband and I had built, all that I had worked for, to provide a sanctuary for my daughters and myself– safe from the behaviors and isms of the douchebags. I had to sell my four-bedroom house in little racist Texas town and my paid-off cars. I leased a condo from three slum lords in another little Texas town who terrorized me although I’d paid my entire lease upfront. I left that hell-hole when my lease expired and slept on my niece’s couch until January of 2020.

It took two years of fighting with “medical professionals” , the industry, and big pharma .  See my suicide “attempt” was ruled a drug-overdose and I was labeled a drug addict by the powers that be at Bayshore Hospital.  The therapist and psychiatrist who were managing my care at Bay Area UT Physicians disappeared with no forwarding address.  My PCP, also of Bay Area UT Physicians, developed some type of amnesia and saw a stranger and addict all of a sudden, instead of the human being she had been treating.  So, I had zero medical or psychiatric treatment from June 2018 until January 2019.  That’s when Harris Health and The Harris Center (formally MHMRA) entered my life. I’ve been seen at the Gulf-Gate Clinic, El Franco Lee Clinic, Smith Clinic, Ben Taub, and Memorial Hermann. I’ve vacationed at the NPC, HCPC, CRU, Houston Discovery Community, and the Turning Point Center.

It took me two years of fighting for what was already mine, to begin with. Two years for me to grow into who I am now.  I had to fight (almost to the death) to be taken seriously despite my skin color, gender, brain limitations, medical conditions, and forced labels.  I have to fight, daily, for people to look at me and see a beautiful, wise, educated, black woman who is grown  and answers to no one but God . 

It took me two years to identify the children  and send them outside to play.  You know, the toddlers (like Trump) who just haven’t had an opportunity to learn yet and the adolescents who like to run around and be in charge of everything.  The teenagers who want to fix everything.  News Flash!:  America isn’t broken. This country is working exactly the way it was designed to work.  You can’t fix something that isn’t broken.   Big Dummies …

It took me two years to find ^#GrownFolks to have conversations and break bread with. Adults.  The people who are invited to sit at the ^#GrownFolksTable at Thanksgiving.  Grown folks  eat on breakable plates using utensils and drink from glassware.  They practice manners and respect.  They speak of building instead of tearing down.  They share talent, knowledge, wisdom, news, announcements, laughter, joy, and pain.  They talk about the future and make plans.  They write things down.  They feel and emote. They make mistakes—acknowledge them—and then learn from them. They make amends. They ask for forgiveness. They have learned what choice and accountability mean. They grow together.

It took me two years to learn to love me just as I am. Extra-Special with a side of Sugar and Grace.

byHisgrace10.2.2020

Credits:

NAMI

Eric Thomas

The Color Purple (Novel by Alice Walker/film Directed by Steven Spielberg)

Anne of Green Gables (Novel by Lucy Maud Montgomery/Anne with an E on Netflix)

Emojipedia.org
NMFConsultants

Special Thanks To:

The Father, The Son, & The Holy Ghost
The Late Jean Pearl Jackson
The Late Andre Monroe Ford
The Late Jerry L. Jackson
The Late Henry L. Jackson, Sr
Lord Proctor
My Heart & Soul, Sugar, The 7, New Friends & Kind Strangers

Read More:

The Vertical Path Magazine™^(Pending)

Online Edition©(Pending)

Launch Date: 10.10.2020

www.theverticalpath.com

The Vertical Path 501(3)c/R63 (pending)

“The press was to serve the governed, not the governors.” —U.S. Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black in New York Times Co. v. United States (1971) The freedom of the press, protected by the First Amendment, is critical to a democracy in which the government is accountable to the people. A free media functions as a watchdog that can investigate and report on government wrongdoing. It is also a vibrant marketplace of ideas, a vehicle for ordinary citizens to express themselves and gain exposure to a wide range of information and opinions.

 www.aclu.org/issues/free-speech/freedom-press/media-protection-laws